


fussing over scars

by starkhasheart



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 00:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21290384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkhasheart/pseuds/starkhasheart
Summary: He recalls the reverence he felt, watching Crowley halt time with sheer willpower seconds before impending doom. Aziraphale glances down at Crowley and smiles in awe, carding his fingers through russet locks."Come up with something, or I’ll never talk to you again!"The hand running through Crowley’s hair screeches to a halt.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 398





	fussing over scars

**Author's Note:**

> howdy hey. i'm back with angst instead of smut because they're the only two things i know how to write
> 
> this was inspired by this [tumblr post](https://eboyaziraphale.tumblr.com/post/188756929117/eboyaziraphale-eboyaziraphale) that stole my spine
> 
> title is from infinitesimal by mother mother
> 
> hope u enjoy sorry it it's choppy or if there's typos i'm impatient and i don't want to take breaks when i start a project for fear of not finishing it. also follow me on [tumblr](https://mixedpaints.tumblr.com)

Aziraphale thinks he’s never been this lucky before in his impossibly long existence.

He feels extraordinarily lucky, because Crowley is currently resting his head of fiery red hair on Aziraphale’s lap, breathing even and deep. They’d been lounging in Aziraphale’s backroom, the shop long-since closed, sipping wine while Aziraphale gushed over the current tome he was reading. As always, Crowley listened intently, chin propped up on his hand, gazing at the angel with such reverence, that looking back on it, sent warmth blossoming in Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley’s eyes weren’t covered so Aziraphale got to bask in his marigold gaze entirely, feeling like the proverbial snake resting under the sun.

Eventually Crowley asked if Aziraphale could read to him, and of course Aziraphale did; not only because he loved reading, but also because he finds joy in indulging Crowley. At this point, Aziraphale muses, he thinks he would halt time altogether if Crowley wished for it—just like the demon did before Lucifer crawled up through the ground, all teeth, claws, and horns, spitting venom and hellfire. He recalls the reverence he felt, watching Crowley halt time with sheer willpower seconds before impending doom. Aziraphale glances down at Crowley and smiles in awe, carding his fingers through russet locks.

_Come up with something, or I’ll never talk to you again!_

The hand running through Crowley’s hair screeches to a halt.

Aziraphale takes in a shaky breath, careful not to disturb Crowley, whose response to the lack of touch is to exhale deeply and nuzzle his face against the angel’s stomach. Aziraphale swallows, a pang in his heart, gazing upon the demon’s face. He’s seen more of this countenance lately; brows no longer furrowed constantly, smiles that are brighter, genuine—and his eyes. Aziraphale has always adored Crowley’s eyes, the liquid gold of them. The angel could get lost in them, like a ship out to sea. He does, often now, as Crowley has been forgoing his sunglasses more and more since Armageddon failed. The thought that he’s grown so close to Aziraphale, closer than they’ve ever been in their six millennia of companionship, enough to drop his one mean of defense and be laid bare in front of Aziraphale—it makes the angel’s heart flutter.

Of course Aziraphale never _meant_ what he said, that he’d never talk to Crowley again. One can say things in situations of stress that one does not mean. The line keeps replaying in his head like a record skipping on a gramophone, and the image—oh, it’s not pleasant. It’s always Crowley on his knees as the world shakes apart around them, yellow eyes wide and wet, flinching away from Aziraphale as he brandishes that bleeding sword—as if the demon is afraid of being at the end of it.

Aziraphale’s expression, which was full of love as he gazed at the demon resting in his lap, drops exponentially.

_Walls have ears_. Crowley was right about that; despite being unnervingly silent for the majority of the time they were always accurately aware of what was going on, words that were spoken, looks exchanged, and possible bonds formed between an angel and a demon. They had to be careful, meetings clandestine, while they performed their jobs, occasionally checking in or lending a hand when needed.

Part of Aziraphale—a distasteful part—had felt a lick of shame, sneaking around and fraternizing with a demon.

_Fraternizing_.

He spat the word with venom before tossing the paper into the pond, only for it to burn away to ash. It was a request he could not fill, no matter how much Crowley insisted that it was just for ‘insurance’.

_I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!_

Aziraphale sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, so hard it could draw blood. His gaze has drawn away from Crowley in favor to stare at the floor; his ears have begun to ring.

_You go too fast for me, Crowley_.

Crowley’s face, a mask of disappointment and despondence, hair set aflame by flashing neon lights, tartan thermos in hand. Those ridiculous James Bond bullet decals behind his head. Aziraphale had been glad his eyes were hidden, for once.

Aziraphale’s hands clench into fists and his eyes are burning, a silent threat of tears.

_You’re an angel. I don’t think you can do the wrong thing_.

It was a reassurance. A demon was reassuring an angel. The first time they met, perched atop the Eastern Gate, after Crowley had slithered through Eden and caused the original sin. Aziraphale remembers being captivated, expecting snarling teeth and disgusting skin lesions and the reek of sulphur, only to be greeted by auburn ringlets, bright yellow eyes, and casual conversation. He gave into the temptation to shield the demon from the oncoming storm with a single white wing.

_All right, I’ll do that one, my treat_.

And Aziraphale remembers, the crowd at the Globe the night _Hamlet_ made its debut, and a pair of bespectacled yellow eyes watching at him from across the theater, a genuine smile playing on the demon’s lips.

A lump is forming in Aziraphale’s throat, face twisting in anguish.

_What the deuce are you doing, locked up in the Bastille?_

A snap of Crowley’s fingers, and the manacles binding Aziraphale’s wrists clattered onto the dirt floor.

_Little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?_

A back of prophetic tomes torn from a dead Nazi’s hand, handed gingerly back to the angel that they belonged to.

_We can go off together_.

Aziraphale’s breathing, once steady, is coming out in short, panicked rasps.

_Aziraphale_.

It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Crowley, lamenting to himself at a bar, when Aziraphale was bouncing to and fro, attempting to gather his bearings and find a body to inhabit. He found Crowley there, three sheets to the wind, voice thick with tears and grief. And, even though his eyes were covered by the shield of his sunglasses, Aziraphale could still _see_ them, _see_ Crowley’s face when the angel shimmered in front of him—mouth falling open, brows drawing together—and the feeling of _love_ crashed into Aziraphale like a tsunami on shore.

The tears welling in Aziraphale’s eyes spill over, leaving trails down his cheeks as a sob is torn from his throat, chest heaving. He brings a shaky hand up to cover his mouth, a fruitless attempt to cover his cries. His shoulders shake and his chest heaves as he weeps almost pathetically, drawing his arms around himself as if it’s a last-ditch attempt to keep himself from falling apart. A tear rolls down a plump cheek and falls, splattering on Crowley’s forehead, and the demon’s face scrunches up before his eyelids flutter open.

Aziraphale is too despondent to notice, hands covering his eyes as he attempts to sob, quietly, and upon hearing the angel weep Crowley’s eyelids snap open wide.

“Aziraphale?” he slurs, tendrils of sleep attempting to drag him back down. The angel’s body is being wracked with sobs and Crowley scrambles up immediately, perching on his lap and twisting to face him. “Aziraphale, what the Heaven is wrong?”

The angel hiccoughs, allowing Crowley to peel his hands away from his face. Aziraphale’s cheeks are ruddy, wet with tears, and he’s sniffling. When he sees Crowley his face twists in almost agony, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. “C-Crowley, I—”

“Angel, shh, it’s okay,” Crowley attempts to soothe, framing Aziraphale’s face in his hands, wiping tears away with his thumb. This only seems to make Aziraphale wound up more; the angel lunges at Crowley, gathering up the demon into a tight hug that could crush bones, burying his face into the nape of Crowley’s neck. His sobs are muffled but his whole body is quaking, and Crowley can feel his heart shattering into pieces.

Aziraphale isn’t in the state to talk right now. So, Crowley decides to hold him close, rubbing soothing circles in his back, kissing salty tears away. They stay like this for awhile, Crowley perched on Aziraphale’s lap while the angel is draped over him, sniffling.

“There you are, angel,” Crowley soothes, once Aziraphale’s sobbing has died down. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Sniffing, Aziraphale slowly pulls away from Crowley’s embrace to look at his demon, watery gaze filled with reverence. With a shaky hand, Aziraphale cups Crowley’s cheek, taking in sharp angles and red hair and golden eyes before he utters a word.

“Crowley,” the angel rasps, face twisting as if he’s trying to smother another sob. “I—I’m so dreadfully _sorry_.”

Crowley blinks slowly down at the angel, draping his hand over the one cupping his face. He’s wearing a mask of confusion. “Er…what are you apologizing for? You’ve done nothing wrong—”

“But I have!” Aziraphale cries, holding Crowley’s face with both hands now. Crowley can only sit, shell-shocked, and listen to the angel’s laments. “I’ve been so _cruel_ to you, all of these years—and y-you’ve shown me nothing but kindness despite it all, and I just—I don’t know why!”

“Aziraphale, angel, can you take a deep breath for me?” Crowley murmurs, covering Aziraphale’s hands with his own. He’s aware that, being two supernatural entities, they don’t require oxygen, but he’s heard that deep breathing can help humans having panic attacks—a hysterical angel should be no different.

Aziraphale complies, inhaling a shuddery lungful of air before slowly exhaling. He does this three more times before he’s able to speak coherently.

“I was just thinking,” the angel croaks, voice thick with tears, “about all the times I’ve been cruel to you, the whole holy water affair, the bandstand, and—and before Armageddon. When I told you I would never talk to you again.” He sniffs, removing his hand from Crowley’s face to rub one of his eyes. “And…and despite my disposition towards you, you’ve always shown me a unique sort of kindness that every other demon lacks—and I feel like you’ve misplaced it on me.”

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, with an expression the angel can’t name. He reaches with shaky hands to frame the angel’s face, forcing Aziraphale to stare him straight in the eyes.

“Aziraphale.” The moniker is said with such love and reverence that it makes the angel shiver. “You are every bit deserving of any kindness that I’ve shown you, and that I’m going to show you. I’m a _demon_. I’m not nice to just _anybody_, I’ll have you know.”

Aziraphale actually lets out a weak laugh at this, and Crowley smiles. “I suppose you’re right, dear. But…”

“But nothing,” Crowley says before Aziraphale can object any further. “Listen to me, angel. I understand that the things you said in the past did not come from a place of malice, but rather from a place of…_Heavenly_ influence.” He’s rubbing soothing circles onto Aziraphale’s cheekbones. “You only said them to cover your arse and protect yourself.”

“And you,” Aziraphale whispers meekly.

A smile slowly plays across Crowley’s lips. “And me,” he murmurs softly. “I will admit that, at the time, the words stung.” Aziraphale frowns. “But they don’t anymore. They’re in the past. I know you only said them for fear of divine retribution, or whatever it is.”

“It’s not exactly a good excuse,” Aziraphale sniffles.

“I think it’s a good excuse as any,” Crowley says. “Heaven’s not what it used to be these days. Too uptight. Too sterile.” Nothing like the Beginning, when things were New and everyone would wonder what the Almighty’s next moves would be.

“But it’s in the past now,” the demon continues, smiling down at the angel. “We don’t have to worry about it anymore. We don’t have to worry about what anyone thinks. We’re on our side, remember?”

“Our own side,” Aziraphale repeats softly, a grin spreading across his lips.

“Yeah.” Crowley leans in to brush his lips against Aziraphale’s tear-stained cheeks, before moving to kiss each eyelid. “Better?”

“Exponentially,” Aziraphale says, grinning. “Although…”

Crowley cocks a brow up. “Although?”

“I would feel even better if you kissed me, darling.”

Crowley chuckles, and Aziraphale joins in, and the two close the space between them as their lips meld together like two pieces of a puzzle for the first time, and most certainly not the last.


End file.
